


Sherlock: Prisoner of Society

by IBegToDreamAndDiffer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, But Awesome, Challenge Response, Explicit Language, Greg's a bit of a maniac, Humor, M/M, References to Sex, Romance, and he plays drums, ooc moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft didn't think getting dragged to a pub sounded like a good time. But then he saw him, the brunette, up on stage. It's all fine... until said brunette starts stalking him. But is it stalking if Mycroft secretly (it's really not a secret) likes it? (No seriously, everyone knows). In which Greg's in a band, Anthea's annoyingly awesome, Sally loves shirts, and Sherlock and John are little bastards. Oh, and Mycroft and Greg are totally in love (but it's apparently a secret).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock: Prisoner of Society

**Author's Note:**

> **Note:** A punkish!Mystrade written for the competition over on the _fuckyeahteenlock_ blog on Tumblr. Who am I to say no to a teen-punk challenge? Except they're in their early twenties, and only Greg is sorta punky... I hope it still counts!
> 
>  **Title/Lyrics:** Prisoner of Society by The Living End
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.

  
  


“ _Cause I'm a brat_

_And I know everything_

_And I talk back_

_'Cause I'm not listening to anything you say”_

  
  


Mycroft had no idea how he got dragged into this... wait, no, he _definitely_ knew. Anthea was pissed off because Sherlock had had sex with his boyfriend in the sitting room, knocking over a bottle of coke, and ruining half of Anthea's psychology essay. Sherlock offered to re-write it for her and ended up handing her fourteen pages of, “Psychology is boring and I hate you”, written over and over again. So Mycroft re-wrote it instead, kicked Sherlock and his boyfriend John out, and agreed to go out with Anthea in exchange for her not murdering him, Sherlock, _and_ John in their sleep.

Which was why, on a Friday night, Mycroft found himself being literally dragged into the pub for drinks, live music, and apparent “sexy guys that'll fuck the tension out of you”.

Well, Mycroft would never deny that his best-friend was insane and fun to be around.

Anthea man-handled Mycroft to the bar, forced him to order a drink, and then tugged him over to a table in the middle of the pub. He was finally let go when they sat and sighed in exhaustion.

'Shut up,' Anthea muttered.

'My wrist hurts,' Mycroft complained.

'No it doesn't.'

'Anthea.'

'Mycroft.'

He scowled at his best friend, who just grinned and turned to survey the area. She was no doubt looking for an attractive woman to flirt and possibly sleep with, so Mycroft pulled out his BlackBerry and checked his schedule, his email, what homework he had left, whether or not Sherlock had been arrested in the seven hours since he'd last seen him; the usual.

When he'd run out of things to look at he dropped his BlackBerry on the smooth wooden table and looked around. It was a rather small pub, different to the usual clubs Anthea went to. It was one room, the bar set in the middle, separating the wooden tables from the booths and more private area that was up the back. A hallway led to the bathrooms and back rooms, as well as the alley out the back, and Mycroft glimpsed a storage room when one of the bartenders started lugging a box of alcohol towards the bar.

The walls were varnished wood and various framed pictures of the local area, and the pub back in the “old days”, hung neatly side-by-side. There were also framed pictures of famous people (though how a local weather girl was famous, Mycroft had no idea), as well as art by aspiring and local artists. Mycroft spotted one oil painting that he rather liked; it depicted a man clad in leather standing in the middle of a railway depot, staring up at the cloudy sky, only his shadow for company.

Mycroft tore his eyes away from the walls to look at the bar. It was made of heavy wood, glossed to shine, and a matt laid across near the taps to help soak-up spilled drinks. The wall behind the bar was wood too, lined with bottles, and beneath was a counter with a cash register, glasses, and more drinks. There were also cash registers at each end.

Directly before the bar, set against the other wall, was a small sage with speakers, a slightly battered drum set, and microphones.

None of it was terrible interesting so Mycroft turned to his favourite sport; people-watching. There was a couple at the table by the door. The girl was cheating, the boy was more interested in the waitress buying cigarettes from the machine in the opposite corner, and neither seemed to know what the other was doing/hiding.

Near the waitress were two young men discussing football or basketball or... something-ball. The one on the right used heroin, the other was sleeping with someone at work.

Mycroft twisted in his seat to see if there was anyone in the booths next to the bar, but Anthea chose that moment to throw a coaster at him.

'Can I help you, my dear?' Mycroft asked, too used to her behaviour to be bothered. He'd met her his first day at university. He'd sat alone outside near the fountain closest to his dormitory to enjoy his lunch, people-watching as usual, when Anthea suddenly plopped down beside him, declared him interesting, and promptly started a conversation. By the end of the hour Anthea was his self-declared best friend and Mycroft had never managed to get rid of her.

Not that he wanted to now, of course. He lived with her and had for the past year. In the beginning she'd been interesting but rather annoying. She was still annoying, but Mycroft loved her anyway. She had an eidetic memory, slapped people who insulted him, and could force Sherlock to stop throwing tantrums with a simple eyebrow raise. If Mycroft went for women he would have married her by now.

'Stop deducing people and start leering,' Anthea ordered.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Excuse me?'

'You heard me,' Anthea said. 'You need to get laid. To get laid, you need a boyfriend. To get a boyfriend, you need to talk to men. To talk to men-'

'Yes, I've got it,' Mycroft interrupted. 'Haven't I told you that I don't _want_ a boyfriend _or_ sex _or_ to talk to men?'

'Your right hand, and the history on your laptop, begs to differ,' Anthea said.

Mycroft felt his face heat up and scowled when Anthea giggled. He took a large gulp of his drink- something with vodka, Anthea had ordered- and cleared his throat before saying, 'That's private.'

'Half the websites you visit are gay porn,' Anthea said, 'so I really, _really_ think that you _do_ want sex.'

Sighing, Mycroft said, 'I'm twenty-one, of course I have... _urges_ -' Anthea giggled, '- and I take care of them myself,' he continued. 'I don't need a boyfriend, nor do I need another person helping.'

'But it's _so_ much better when someone helps,' Anthea argued.

'Just because you shag every attractive girl that walks past you-'

'Oi!'

'- doesn't mean I'm going to jump every attractive guy,' Mycroft continued. 'I agreed to come out with you on a Friday night, when I _should_ be doing my homework and watching _Doctor Who_. But I'm not, I'm here; don't make me regret it.'

Anthea pouted but slumped back in her seat. 'Fine,' she said, 'I'll drop the “Mycroft needs a shag” topic for tonight- _only_ for tonight- okay?'

'Thank you.'

'So,' Anthea said, 'how're your parents?'

Mycroft sighed. The only topic he hated more than his sex life (or lack thereof) was that of his parents. 'Father's in Switzerland or Germany or some other European country, while Mother's in London redecorating the Kensington House, _again_. She called me at two o'clock in the morning to ask if red went with honey yellow, like I'd somehow know.'

'You're gay, and according to your mum you're all like those Queer Eye guys,' Anthea said.

'I never should have let you meet her,' Mycroft mused.

'Hey, best friends are _supposed_ to fuck up their mate's family life, Mycroft.'

'Are they?'

'It's the law,' Anthea stated seriously.

Mycroft snorted. 'Stop listening to _Cabin Pressure_.'

'Never!' Anthea snapped.

They bickered for about half-an-hour about various topics until Mycroft realised the pub was beginning to fill rather rapidly. He looked around as Anthea went to get them fresh drinks- her fourth, Mycroft's second- and when she got back he said, 'Why are there suddenly so many people?'

'The band that plays Friday and Saturday nights is really popular around here,' Anthea answered and re-took her seat. A guy near them leered, but of course Anthea ignored him. 'They're called _Black Tie Tuesdays_ and they're really good.'

'If you say so,' Mycroft hummed and sipped his drink- another vodka-flavoured thing, honestly what was with Anthea and vodka tonight?

'They do original stuff and covers; songs by _My Chemical Romance_ , _Green Day_ , _Paramore,_ bands like that.'

Mycroft blinked at her. 'I understood half of what you said.'

Anthea chuckled and said, 'Just wait and see, they'll be on at eight.'

Mycroft groaned. 'We're staying until _eight_?'

'It's seven-thirty and we're staying until at _least_ ten.' Mycroft groaned again. 'Come on, Mycroft, you _promised_.' And then she went and pouted, and Mycroft was a sucker for Anthea's pout. Honestly, she had him firmly wrapped around her finger and he was stubborn, gay, and half-hated her.

Mycroft was sure Anthea had super powers she hadn't shared with the rest of Earth's residents. That or she was the Doctor.

'Fine,' he said, because really he had no choice. 'If I get drunk it's your fault.'

'Of course it is; I'm counting on it,' Anthea grinned.

Mycroft groaned _again_.

  
  


{oOo}

  
  


It _finally_ hit eight and Mycroft had been ready to go home half-an-hour ago. Actually, he was ready to go home when they got in the cab. But Anthea was pouting and threatening and messing up his hair, so Mycroft had no choice but to stay seated and sip the vodka drinks Anthea bought for him.

The lights suddenly went off- all but those on the stage- and most of the crowd grouped around the small stage. Mycroft turned in his seat; Anthea had picked a table halfway between the stage and wall, so he had a good view without being too close.

He could just see through the various people, and watched as five people climbed onto the stage; four guys and a girl.

They were all about Mycroft's age, maybe older. The only woman was a guitarist, playing a red instrument that Mycroft wouldn't know the name of if he tried (he played piano, and that was his musical influence for life), while the other guitarist was a guy with curly, shoulder-length hair and a black instrument. The bass player had bleached blonde hair, the keyboard player was wearing a beanie, and the drummer...

… well, the drummer was just _gorgeous_.

Mycroft's eyes immediately zeroed in on him. He was wearing skin-tight jeans, black, with a rumpled black t-shirt, and boots. His wrists were covered in silver, black, and brown, and his hair was a brunette mess. His eyes, the colour of which Mycroft couldn't tell from this far away, were lined with make-up, and his skin was tanned beyond what you usually saw on someone living in the heart of England.

Everything about him screamed “rough” and “law-breaker”, and that was part of his charm. The charming smirk he threw his band-mates and the audience didn't help, and neither did the way he stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin.

Mycroft's jeans suddenly felt uncomfortably tight and he shifted in his seat before downing the rest of his drink, trying to cool down. When he caught Anthea's eyes the woman was smirking.

'Shut up,' he growled.

'Mycroft sees something he fancies!' Anthea sing-songed.

'Shut up or I'll delete all your assignments,' Mycroft threatened.

'Ooh, touchy.'

Mycroft ignored her and turned back to the band... well, back to the brunette drummer. The male guitarist had said something that Mycroft missed; the audience was cheering now, getting pumped up, and suddenly the band started playing.

They were good, Mycroft could admit (only to himself, he would _never_ admit it to his best friend). Mycroft tapped his foot to the beat, let the music and lyrics wash over him. But, try as he might to focus on the song _only_ , his eyes drifted to the drummer.

He was bashing away on his instrument, all crazy limbs and goofy smiles. He threw his sticks in the air, dropped them more often than not, but seemed to have an endless supply somewhere. He was good and clearly loved playing, throwing his entire body into it, and Mycroft smiled. He was that way when he played piano; not as mental, of course, but the passion for music was the same.

When the song finished Mycroft clapped politely and took the drink Anthea had apparently disappeared to get. She was definitely an alien; no human could move that fast.

Anthea rolled her eyes, like she could read his mind (another fact for his alien theory) and gestured for him to drink while the band talked.

Gorgeous Drummer was standing, swapping places with the male guitarist. The guitar went on a stand beside Keyboard Guy, and Drummer stood behind the microphone.

His first words were, 'I see lots of sexy people in here still with their clothes on.'

There were cheers and whistles, of course, and Mycroft rolled his eyes while Anthea snorted a laugh. Drummer had a deep, gravelly voice that Mycroft wanted to hear again... preferably up close, or groaning his name.

… no, really, he did _not_ just think that.

'I want to do a cover,' Drummer continued, 'so you'd all better fucking like it or I'll stage dive and spill your drinks.'

There were boos about the drink spilling, cheers for the stage diving, but Drummer ignored them and turned to the guy now sitting at the drums. He nodded, there was a shout of, 'One, two, three, four!' and they started.

Mycroft didn't know the song. Something about “prisoners of society” and being a brat. It was good, though. The kind of punk-fuelled song that made you want to dance and break things and generally be a dick. And Mycroft didn't like doing any of that, so kudos to Drummer for making him want it.

Drummer's hips were swaying, head tilted, and he stroked the microphone like a lover (that tight feeling was back in Mycroft's jeans) as he sang, ''Cause I'm a brat! And I know everything, and I talk back! 'Cause I'm not listening to _aaanything yooou saaay_!'

Mycroft's eyes were glued to him and he couldn't look away if he tried. There was something about the man- who Mycroft estimated to be a few years older than himself- that captured his attention completely. It could be the hair- it looked soft, yet ruffled- or the clothes- honestly, his shirt was hiking up every few seconds and flashing skin- or the way Drummer's eyes _suddenly found Mycroft's and held them steady as he grinned and licked his lips!_

Ooookay... that didn't happen, not to Mycroft. People didn't flirt and lick their lips at him. So... Mycroft realised Anthea was behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. Right, Drummer was looking at Anthea; of course he was. Anthea was gorgeous, even Mycroft could admit that.

He ignored the faint pang of disappointed that rose in his chest. He had to get a grip. Mycroft didn't even _know_ this man, and he certainly didn't want him. It was... the vodka, Mycroft decided. When in doubt, blame the alcohol your best friend was force-feeding you.

Mycroft drained said drink and stood to get another, leaving Anthea at the table. The bar was mostly empty, everyone packed around the stage, so Mycroft managed to order and get his drink relatively quickly.

He stayed at the bar, glancing over at the stage, as the song continued and eventually finished. The audience cheered and Mycroft walked back to the table.

'Are you having a good time?' Anthea asked.

'No,' Mycroft answered, annoyed.

'You sure about that?' the woman grinned.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

'You were totally eye-fucking the Little Drummer Boy,' Anthea grinned. Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Don't deny it, love!'

'I'll deny it all I want because it _didn't happen_ ,' the politician-in-training answered haughtily.

Anthea snorted. 'Whatever you say, Mikey-Bear.'

'I told you not to call me that!' Mycroft snarled.

'Easy, tiger.'

'Anthea, I'm warning you.'

'Whoa, Cuddle Monster.'

'ANTHEA!'

'Is that your name, beautiful?'

They both turned at the new voice to see a thirty-something man leering at Anthea and clearly drunk.

'Get lost, she's not interested!' Mycroft snapped.

'Oh come-'

'Fuck off, wanker,' Anthea interrupted the man. He glared at them both before swearing at them and storming away. 'Douche bag,' Anthea muttered.

'Forget him,' Mycroft said.

Still, the man had distracted Anthea from her original topic, and the two settled back as the band started their next song.

'Another cover 'cause I fucking said so,' Drummer announced.

Even Mycroft recognised the song; it was one of Anthea's favourites. _Boy Division_ by the recently broken-up _My Chemical Romance_. Mycroft would never forget waking up to find Anthea in the sitting room, watching a DVD of _My Chemical Romance_ live, and eating chocolate-chip ice-cream from the tub while crying.

He didn't understand women, never would, and really didn't want to. It was best to agree to everything they said and hope for survival.

'If all my enemies threw a party, would you light the candles? Would you drink the wine? While watching television?' Drummer sang loudly.

Mycroft decided he liked Drummer's voice; deep, rough, like an after-sex voice... not that he knew from personal experience, but he could imagine.

 _Stop it, Mycroft, you have no chance and you're_ not _interested._

'Watch the animals and all the tragedies and sell your arteries and buy my casket gown,' Drummer continued.

_Not interested._

'Well, it better be black and it better be tight and it better be just my size!'

_Not at all._

'I’m stalking these metro malls and airport halls and all these schoolgirls!'

_Not. Interested._

Drummer's eyes turned to Mycroft, and this time Mycroft was about seventy-eight percent positive that the man was _actually_ looking at him.

'I’m not asking, you’re not telling... he’s not dead, he only looks that-'

_Eighty-eight percent._

'- _waay_ out nowhere, take me out there-' He was _definitely_ looking at Mycroft, '- far away and save me from my...'

_Maybe a little bit interested..._

'- self-destruction, hopeless for you...'

_Definitely._

'… sing a song for California!'

 _Fuck_.

The song continued much the same; loud, inspiring, with Drummer dancing around and staring at Mycroft (the genius was almost sure of it), while the band members did their various dances and played, and the audience generally went wild as half-drunk audiences were inclined to do.

''Cause we got the bomb, we got the bomb-' Drummer shouted.

'LET'S GO!' the audience screamed as one.

'WE GOT THE BOMB, WE GOT THE BOMB!'

'LET'S GO!'

It repeated a few times, not that Mycroft was _really_ listening. He was too interested in staring at dark eyes and sweat-drenched hair and a slim body practically being revealed with every movement of skilled hips.

And then the song ended, and Drummer threw his arms up, revelling in the cheers and whistles. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, grinning at the ceiling as he did. Behind him his band-mates were getting drinks and smiling and doing what they did. But Drummer seemed to be apart from it all, just enjoying the moment of freedom of joy.

His head lowered, he put the microphone back on its stand, and his eyes locked onto Mycroft. Mycroft's mouth dropped open when the guy pointed at him, licked his lips, and _winked_. Then he skipped off to his drums, once again switching places with the other guy.

Still gaping, Mycroft turned to Anthea. 'Did he-'

'Oh he is _so_ into you!' Anthea grinned and clapped. 'Little Drummer Boy has a gay crush on Mikey-Bear!'

'Anthea!'

'He does!'

'No he doesn't!'

'He wants to have filthy sex with you!'

Mycroft groaned and thumped his head against the table. He was now aroused _and_ annoyed.

Damn it.

  
  


{oOo}

  
  


Mycroft was well into his fifth drink- not drunk, everything just getting slightly nicer and fuzzy around the edges- when the chair beside him was dragged aside, and a warm body dropped onto it.

Mycroft blinked and turned- ready to fend off another guy trying to hit on Anthea- when his eyes landed on Drummer (or Little Drummer Boy, as Anthea had dubbed him). He was taller than Mycroft realised, though still shorter than the red-head himself, and even more gorgeous up-close. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, breathing slightly laboured, and smelled of beer and cigarettes.

'Hi there,' he said and gave Mycroft a charming grin.

Mycroft just stared.

After a few seconds of that, Anthea cleared her throat. Drummer looked away from Mycroft to smile at her.

'Hey,' he repeated.

That made Anthea smirk in amusement. 'I'm Anthea,' she said.

'Greg Lestrade,' Drummer said and nodded at her. He turned back to Mycroft and thrust his hand out. 'You can call me Greg.'

 _That_ made Anthea giggle, but Mycroft ignored her. He looked down at the hand for a few seconds, while his mind screamed, _It's a hand! Shake it! It's probably warm! You'll get to touch him!_ He finally took it, and his palm was smooth, his fingers calloused from hard labour and playing drums.

Lestrade- because Mycroft didn't know him well enough to call him _Greg_ \- grinned widely and shook Mycroft's hand firmly.

'Ya know, this is the part where you tell me your name,' he said.

'Mycroft Holmes,' Anthea answered, because apparently her best friend had forgotten how to speak for the first time since he was seven-months-old (he developed rather quickly).

'Right,' Lestrade said, still smiling. ( _Why, why is he smiling?_ Mycroft's thoughts demanded. _And damn it, why is it charming?_ ) 'Strange name,' Lestrade continued, eyes back on Mycroft. 'I like it.'

Mycroft blinked rapidly. Liked it? Nobody _liked_ his name. Mycroft didn't even like his name!

When it became apparent Mycroft wasn't going to say anything, Lestrade turned to Anthea. 'What's wrong with him, then?'

'I think you broke him,' Anthea said, amusement colouring her tone.

'Ah,' Lestrade nodded. 'Was it my stunning good looks? My charming smile? My awesome drummering?'

'Drummering isn't a word,' Mycroft finally said, never able to _not_ correct someone.

'HE SPEAKS!' Lestrade shouted and Mycroft raised a well-groomed eyebrow. 'I like your voice, very posh,' Lestrade continued. 'You talk like that in bed?'

'Excuse me?' Mycroft spluttered.

'Aww, you're adorable,' Lestrade grinned and reached out to ruffle the genius' hair.

Mycroft wasn't sure whether he should revel in the touch or throw something at Lestrade and tell him to keep his damn hands to himself... his body wanted the first, his mind the latter.

'So, you talk like that in bed, Mycroft?' Lestrade asked again. 'All posh, well-put together words after you've been shagged into the mattress?'

Mycroft could not _believe_ that this man- this _stranger_ \- was asking about his sex life so openly.

Anthea apparently found him funny, because she was giggling and grinning openly. 'Stop that,' she chastised Lestrade when she saw Mycroft's freckled cheeks turn pink. 'Pick on someone your own size.'

'But I don't want to,' Lestrade pouted. 'I like this one.'

He pointed at the red-head, who said, 'I'm not a _thing_.'

''Course not,' Lestrade said. 'Still, I want you, and I'll have you.'

'Are you threatening me?'

Lestrade huffed. ''Course not.' He leered, 'Just very sure of myself.'

Mycroft snorted and brought his glass to his lips. 'Believe me, Mr Lestrade, I don't voluntarily go to bed with unhinged individuals.'

'Ooh, sassy,' Lestrade nodded, 'I like that. Not you calling me a nut-case, but still; Mr Sassy-Pants.'

 _Hmm, he caught on rather quickly_ , Mycroft thought as Lestrade swigged from the bottle of beer he'd brought with him. _I like that_.

'So, you enjoy the show?' Lestrade asked then. 'Your first time, right? I'd have remembered such a gorgeous young man in the audience.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes while Anthea said, 'It was great fun; you guys are good.'

''Course we are,' Lestrade said. He hadn't taken his eyes off Mycroft, and his chair and body were both pointed in Mycroft's direction.

Anthea didn't seem bothered, she was just grinning.

'So, Greg,' she said, 'you're gay, then?'

'Nah,' Lestrade shook his head. 'I love 'em all; the human body is a beautiful thing, why get picky?'

'Interesting,' Anthea hummed.

'What about you?' Lestrade asked.

'Gay,' Anthea answered simply, 'same as him,' she then nodded at Mycroft.

'Anthea!' Mycroft snapped.

'What?' the girl rolled her eyes. 'Anyone with a brain can tell you're queer, love.'

Mycroft sighed and took a much larger gulp of his drink. He wasn't nearly drunk enough to deal with Anthea _and_ Lestrade.

'So I _do_ have a shot,' Lestrade grinned triumphantly.

' _That's_ what you take out of that conversation?' Mycroft sniffed.

''Course.'

'You have no chance at all, Lestrade, so give up now,' Mycroft told him.

'Never,' Lestrade replied. 'I see something I _really_ want and I'm going for it 'til I drop.' He grinned widely. 'I'll win you over, Mycroft Holmes.'

'I seriously doubt it,' Mycroft said.

Lestrade just smiled and finished off his beer. Placing it on the table, he stood and said, 'I'm heading off, but it was _great_ meeting you, Mycroft.'

How someone could make those words _seductive_ was beyond Mycroft, but there it was. He swallowed thickly, jeans once more becoming just a bit too tight, and Mycroft cursed his body for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

'It was nice meeting you too!' Anthea prompted.

'Ah, right, yeah; you too,' Lestrade said, a quick smile thrown Anthea's way before his attention went back to Mycroft. 'I'll see ya later, Mycroft Holmes.'

'No you won't,' Mycroft stated.

Lestrade grinned. 'We'll see,' he said before moving through the crowd and to the back door, quickly disappearing.

'Not a goddamn word!' Mycroft hissed, pointing a finger at his best friend.

'Oh, _Mycroft_ ,' Anthea grinned. 'You've got yourself a boyfriend.'

Mycroft groaned and downed his drink. Maybe getting drunk tonight wasn't such a bad idea after all.

  
  


{oOo}

  
  


_Why am I doing this, why am I doing this, WHY AM I FUCKING DOING THIS?!_ Mycroft's thoughts were on a loop as he sat at the table- near the front of the stage, Anthea truly hated him- and waited for Anthea and her sudden-girlfriend Sally to come back with their drinks.

It had been two weeks since Mycroft had met Gregory Lestrade- Anthea was still calling him Little Drummer Boy- and in that time Mycroft had handed in two assignments late, failed to call his mother, and muttered about “stupid charming musicians” under his breath sixteen times.

Oh, and Anthea got a girlfriend; Sally Donovan, who went to the same university as them. Mycroft had heard something about a notice board, a football, and chocolate sundaes... he didn't want to know, really, he was just happy that Anthea was happy. And Sally, though a bit rough around the edges, was smart and nice enough, so Mycroft left the relationship alone.

Anthea returned, followed by Sally, and as soon as she sat she said, 'Looking for your Gay Little Drummer Boy?'

'You've added “gay”, now?' Mycroft asked. Anthea had, of course, got him some type of vodka drink, which Mycroft sipped dutifully.

'Well, Pansexual Little Drummer Body doesn't sound as good,' Anthea stated. 'And he is _so_ gay for you.'

'I can't wait to meet him,' Sally chimed in. 'All I've heard for the past two weeks is about this fanboy of yours, Mycroft.'

'He's not my fanboy,' Mycroft groaned.

'He is,' Anthea told her girlfriend, 'he sat with us for maybe ten minutes and _all_ his attention was on Mycroft. Barely gave me two glances and he didn't even check me out.'

'Not once?'

'I was wearing my blue, v-neck sweater,' Anthea told her.

Sally gasped. 'The one that brings out your eyes?'

'Yes.'

'I love you in that.'

'I know; I like how it makes my boobs look.'

'I love them too.'

'I love you in that green cardigan.'

Mycroft stared as, somehow, the conversation turned from his gay fanboy to clothing to how gorgeous the couple looked, and then of course to lesbian sex which Mycroft _really_ didn't want to hear about, thank you.

Instead he sipped his drink, did some people-watching, and vehemently did _not_ look at the stage.

But he did. Because for all his denial (both to Anthea and himself), Lestrade _had_ made an impression. He was gorgeous, weird, outgoing, smart, played the drums _and_ sang, and for some reason had chosen to pay attention to Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft didn't get it. He wasn't even sure if he liked it.

But he _did_ want to see Lestrade again.

For some reason.

Which had _nothing_ to do with the five times he'd masturbated that week alone to thoughts of strong, tanned arms, messy brunette hair, and a charming smile.

Mycroft swallowed half his drink, coughed to clear his throat, and looked back at Anthea and Sally.

Both were grinning.

They knew.

Curse the female sex to the fiery depths of Hades.

Mycroft did what Holmeses did best; ignored the problem until it went away. He knew Anthea and Sally wouldn't go away, but damn it he'd try.

Anthea and Sally talked, flirted, and kissed, and Mycroft mostly stared around the pub and fiddled with his BlackBerry. Occasionally they'd drag him into conversation, but as soon as Gay Little Drummer Boy was brought up Mycroft promptly tuned out.

He _really_ didn't know why he was here. The last time had been an apology to Anthea. This time Anthea had tossed clothing at him, stated they were going out, and hadn't told Mycroft _where_ they were going until they were pulling up in the cab.

Again, Mycroft cursed women everywhere. Smart, sneaky bloody women. Really, how they hadn't taken over the world yet was beyond him... or maybe they had and men didn't realise, because women let them _think_ they ran everything, and had secret meetings laughing at the stupidity of the other sex.

Mycroft blinked before frowning down at his glass. Either he'd drunk _way_ more than he thought he had, or Gregory Lestrade had thrown him so much that he really was starting to daydream about the fairer sex plotting world domination.

'I need more alcohol or less,' Mycroft stated out-loud.

'More is always good,' Sally said.

'Want me to go?' Anthea asked.

'No, I will,' Mycroft said and finished his drink. He stood, took the girls' orders, and moved through the rather spartan crowd. It was only seven, and _Black Tie Tuesdays_ (Mycroft hated that he remembered the name of Lestrade's band) wasn't performing until eight, so the pub wouldn't be packed for a while yet.

Mycroft reached the bar and waited behind three young men laughing and pushing each other. Mycroft stopped the eye-roll he wanted to pull. Honestly, he hated his own generation.

When the female bartender finally served him, Mycroft ordered the drinks and reached for his wallet. He'd just slipped it out when a voice very close to his ear said, 'Add a beer to that and I'll pay.'

Mycroft jolted and turned, the bartender saying, 'What beer?'

'Whatever's on tap is fine.'

And there stood Gregory Lestrade, wearing tight red jeans, a black button-up shirt, and black Converse Allstars. Necklaces and bracelets adorned his neck and wrists, his eyes were highlighted with eye-liner and eye shadow, and his hair was an artful mess.

Of course, the first thing Mycroft thought was; _His eyes are the colour of milk chocolate and I want to lick his neck_.

... Mycroft definitely had a problem.

Lestrade gave the red-head a cocky grin and handed over the cash for the drinks. 'Hello, there,' Lestrade said and leaned against the bar. Their drinks were ready, but Lestrade didn't seem inclined to move.

'… hello,' Mycroft finally settled on after a few seconds of staring.

'Hello,' Lestrade echoed.

'… hello,' Mycroft repeated.

A grin spread across the older man's face. 'You're amazing, you know that?'

'I am?'

Lestrade nodded. 'You're weird, which I like, 'cause I'm weird too.'

'I gathered,' Mycroft muttered and reached for his drink. He took a sip of liquid courage and cleared his throat. 'How are you, Mr Lestrade?'

Lestrade snorted. 'Mr Lestrade, really? Seriously, call me Greg.'

'I don't think I will.'

'Why not?'

'I don't feel like it.'

'Why not?' Lestrade repeated, pouting this time.

Mycroft shrugged. 'I don't want to.'

'I'll sway you, Mycroft Holmes,' Lestrade vowed.

'Good luck,' Mycroft smirked.

Lestrade grinned in return and Mycroft felt himself relaxing, ever so slightly. It was easier talking to Lestrade without Anthea grinning and giggling and basically flailing about. And Mycroft had had time to recover since their first meeting. Now, he had questions.

'When did you learn to play the drums?' he asked.

Lestrade blinked in surprise before saying, 'I was about ten. Always hitting shit, pissed my parents off, the school counsellor told 'em to get me something to help control my energy, they bought a drum set, been playing ever since.'

He said it in a rush, not taking a break. He then grabbed his beer, took a swig, and looked at Mycroft.

'I see...' Mycroft mused.

'I have that... thing,' Lestrade added, 'uh...ADHD, that's it.'

Mycroft smiled a bit. That certainly explained a hell of a lot.

'Took drugs for it when I was kid, didn't like 'em, stopped and focused on the drums.'

'Why are you telling me all of this?' Mycroft asked.

'You asked.'

Mycroft snorted but didn't comment, just sipping his drink again. They had to move when a few people started lining up behind them, but they didn't go very far. They shuffled down the bar a bit before Lestrade went back to leaning, Mycroft standing before him.

'You have nice fingers,' Lestrade said suddenly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Excuse me?'

'Nice fingers,' Lestrade said, 'long, nimble... piano?'

'Yes,' Mycroft said, shocked. 'How'd you know?'

'Long, nimble fingers,' Lestrade grinned, like that explained everything. To a Holmes, yes, but to a normal (albeit slightly odd) man like Lestrade? Mycroft was impressed.

'Okay... you're a very odd man.'

'Yeah, I know,' Lestrade nodded. 'My middle name should be Weird, not Johnathan.'

'Johnathan?'

'With an H,' Lestrade told him. He leaned closer, 'My parents are a bit mad, I think.'

Mycroft snorted and shook his head.

'Come on, what's your middle name?'

'Why do you care?'

'I told you, I'm interested.'

'In...?'

'You.'

Mycroft was silent.

'And your body.'

More silence.

'And your brain.'

'Shut up, Lestrade.'

'Never.'

Mycroft huffed a laugh and Lestrade grinned cheekily. Damn it, the guy was growing on Mycroft; he actually _liked_ spending time with him. The only people Mycroft spoke to were Anthea- and now Sally- Sherlock, and John.

'Come on,' Lestrade whined and threw himself half-across the bar. He pouted, chocolate-brown eyes wide, bottom lip pocked out. Mycroft had the overwhelming urge to suck on it. 'Middle name, pretty please?'

He batted his eyelashes; how could Mycroft say no to that?

'Edwin.'

'Brilliant!' Lestrade announced. 'Mycroft Edwin Holmes... yeah, that totally fits.'

'Of course,' Mycroft drawled sarcastically.

'Hey, don't be mean,' Lestrade said, back to pouting.

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft said. Lestrade immediately bounced back to grinning and Mycroft asked, 'Are you high?'

'High off of you, baby!'

'You're an idiot.'

'Yeah, been told that,' the drummer grinned.

Suddenly Anthea appeared at his elbow and Mycroft turned a bright shade of red.

'Aww, your freckles are adorable when you blush,' Lestrade teased.

'Shut up!' Mycroft snapped.

'Hey, Sally and I are dying of thirst,' Anthea said. 'You can flirt with Gay Little Drummer Boy at our table.'

'Is that what you call me?' Lestrade asked as he, Mycroft and Anthea carried their drinks to the table, Sally sitting there waiting.

'Yup,' Anthea grinned.

'I'm not gay,' Lestrade reminded her.

'Gay for Mycroft, so it's the same thing.'

'Very true, Miss...'

'Lander, Anthea Lander.'

'Miss Lander,' Lestrade bowed his head. He dragged the only free seat close to Mycroft and dropped into it, sprawling lazily across the table. Mycroft could feel his body heat and wanted to shift about, but Lestrade would feel him, so he stopped himself. Honestly, _why_ the man affected him so much was beyond Mycroft. 'And who are you, you stunning young thing?' Lestrade asked Sally.

Sally raised an eyebrow, looked at Anthea as if to say “is he serious?”, and when Anthea nodded she said, 'Sally Donovan, Anthea's girlfriend.'

'Awesome,' Lestrade stated before turning back to Mycroft. 'So, how long have you played piano?'

'I told you,' Anthea whispered to Sally, 'only got eyes for Mikey-Bear.'

Mycroft closed his eyes, and prayed _really_ hard, but then- 'Mikey-Bear?!'

He groaned.

Lestrade was grinning widely. 'You call him Mikey-Bear?'

Anthea blinked and said, 'Um... I _probably_ shouldn't have told you that.'

'Aww, Mikey-Bear,' Lestrade teased, turning back to Mycroft.

'I hate you all,' Mycroft snarled, glaring at Anthea, who _did_ look apologetic. But Mycroft was _so_ changing all the songs on her iPhone to Justin Bieber.

'Nah, you're not a Mikey-Bear,' Lestrade announced. 'You're a... nope, just Mycroft.'

'That's not a nickname,' Sally pointed out.

'Well he's too awesome for a nickname,' Lestrade told her, like it was a simple _fact_. 'Mycroft is Mycroft, and he's brilliant, end of story, curtain down, thanks for coming!'

Sally's eyebrows rose at that and she stared at him for a few seconds before stating, 'You're a weirdo.'

'That I am, Miss Donovan, that I am,' Lestrade nodded seriously. And then, of course, his attention went completely to Mycroft.

'How long have you played piano?' he asked again.

Mycroft blinked rapidly before saying, 'Since I was five.'

'And that's how long...?'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Is that your not-so-subtle way of asking for my age?'

Lestrade grinned brightly at him. 'Ah, you caught me. Are you gonna punish me?'

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft said, 'I'm twenty-one.'

'Ooh, yummy.'

'How is that yummy?'

'It just is.'

'Sally's right; you're a weirdo,' Mycroft stated.

'And yet you love me,' Lestrade smiled cheekily.

'I do not.'

'You do too.'

'No, I honestly don't,' Mycroft said before asking, 'and how old are you?'

'Twenty-six,' Lestrade said. He was silent for all of a second before asking, 'What's your favourite colour?'

The next half-an-hour went like that until Lestrade had to go into one of the back rooms and warm up with his band-mates.

'A kiss for good luck?' he asked. Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'I'll get you yet,' Lestrade vowed, winked, and then darted off.

'Didn't even say goodbye to us,' Sally muttered.

'He only has eyes for Mycroft,' Anthea told her.

'I thought you were exaggerating!'

'Clearly I wasn't!'

Mycroft was completely lost in memories; of Lestrade's scent, his boyish smile, his laugh, the colour of his eyes, the way his hair fell, how his nose scrunched up adorably when he giggled.

Yeah... Mycroft was pretty sure Lestrade _would_ get him. He wasn't sure if that bothered him or not.

  
  


{oOo}

  
  


_Black Tie Tuesdays_ performed, everyone cheered and whistled, and Lestrade played like a maniac and stared at Mycroft with lust in his eyes whenever he took the microphone.

Mycroft was ragingly hard beneath the table when Lestrade got back, not that he was going to admit _that_. Anthea and Sally tried to pull Lestrade into conversation, but like Anthea had said, Lestrade only had eyes for Mycroft.

The genius still didn't know _why_. Lestrade wanted to know everything; what he was studying, what school he want to, how he'd met Anthea, did he have any siblings, were his parents married/divorced/alive/dead, what his favourite book/band/song/CD/TV show/movie was, whether he was a top or bottom (or both, apparently Lestrade loved all sexual positions), was Mycroft's hair red or auburn or a mixture of ginger and brown... he wanted to know absolutely _everything_.

And Mycroft, for some fucking reason he still hadn't goddamn figured out, told Lestrade everything. He was dangerously close to becoming _Gregory_ to the genius, and for some reason that half terrified, half aroused Mycroft.

Mycroft had spent his entire life being sure of everything. Being as intelligent as he was, and able to read body language so well, not much had ever surprised him. Not his acceptance to university, his father's affair, Sherlock and John dating, _nothing_.

Yet Lestrade threw him for a loop. He was so random, so crazy, that Mycroft honestly had no idea what was going to happen four seconds from now.

And he really, really liked it.

  
  


{oOo}

  
  


'So you've got a boyfriend?'

Mycroft groaned. It was early on Friday morning and Mycroft had tried to sleep in because his classes were finally done with for the semester. That, of course, meant that Sherlock and John had decided to crash the flat and watch _Doctor Who_ with the volume on “ear-shattering”. Why Sherlock was up was no mystery; he had trouble sleeping like Mycroft. John, on the other hand, should have been in bed little a good little boy.

The two seventeen-year-olds were camped out on the sofa with bowls of cereal, and Mycroft ignored them as he went into the kitchen.

'His name's Greg Lestrade,' Anthea said from the armchair.

'Shut up!' Mycroft snapped. He wasn't a morning person and needed coffee damn it. But really, he wasn't good at talking about Lestrade when he was functioning properly, let alone at nine-goddamn-am.

'Greg, huh?' Sherlock wrinkled his nose. 'Normal name.'

'John's a normal name,' his boyfriend pointed out.

'You're Jawn; it's different.'

Mycroft heard kissing, an elongated “aww” from Anthea, and the sound of the Doctor shouting at Daleks. He groaned and wondered if he could climb into the fridge and suffocate before they saved him.

Rather than doing that- it'd take far too long to take all the shelves and food out, and Mycroft hated the cold- the auburn-haired man pulled out an apple, bit into it, and set about making coffee.

When he joined the others in the sitting room, Sherlock said, 'Anthea's filled us in; we're coming tonight.'

'What?' Mycroft spluttered. 'Why?'

'I want to meet my future brother-in-law,' Sherlock grinned.

'Fuck off, Lockie,' Mycroft groaned and slumped back in the armchair opposite his room-mate.

'I need to vet him, Mycroft,' his brother said, 'who else will protect your virtue?'

Anthea snorted and John giggled, while Mycroft threw a pillow at his annoying sibling. Sherlock just grinned so Mycroft flipped him off and closed his eyes.

'Thinking about Gregory?' Sherlock asked.

Mycroft groaned. Maybe death-by-fridge wasn't such a bad idea.

  
  


{oOo}

  
  


Mycroft was rather glad when he, Sherlock, John, Anthea and Sally all sat at their table and Lestrade _didn't_ show up. Eight pm drew closer and closer and Mycroft breathed a small sigh of relief with every five minutes that passed. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to Lestrade- he really, really did- but he didn't need Sherlock's input. And Sherlock _always_ had fucking input.

At ten to eight Mycroft excused himself to use the lavatory, and headed through the crowd and down the hallway. He did his business, washed his hands, checked his face and hair- _not for Lestrade's benefit_ \- and exited. That was when he spotted the man in question, standing out the back smoking, a mobile pressed to his ear.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Mycroft walked the rest of the way down the hall and stepped through the propped-open door.

Lestrade was wearing his usual punk “seduce Mycroft Holmes” clothing (those were Sally and Anthea's words, _not_ Mycroft's); a pair of tight black jeans, ripped Chuck Taylors, a tight black T-shirt, a red and black flannel shirt, and more jewellery than Mycroft owned.

He had his back to the genius, but Mycroft could hear his half of the conversation, as well as see the angst and anger in Lestrade's body.

'No, Ma, I just... yes, I know... Jesus Christ, _I know_... I will if he will!... Fuck, Mum, I fucking know!... I'll swear as much as I fucking want, alright? He's a prick and he can go fuck himself if he thinks... no, I know.. yes, he raised me- and a fucking stand-up job he did, huh? If anyone's to blame for my fucking unholy _ways_ it's that dick-brain... no, it's not that... Ma, you _know_... would you fucking stop? It's never going to happen!... Yeah, I love you and Mills... Mum... Mum!... _MUM!_ Fuck's sake... tell him... I dunno, I might be there... Yeah? Well he can jam it up his arse!'

He snapped his phone shut and suddenly raised his hand, looking ready to throw it against the brick wall before him. Lestrade seemed to think better of it and stuffed it into his jeans. He dropped his cigarette- which had burned out during his conversation with his mother- and quickly lit another one.

Deciding to make his presence known, Mycroft cleared his throat.

'Jesus fucking Christ!' Lestrade shouted as he spun. 'God, Mycroft, give a guy a fuckin' heart attack.'

'Sorry,' Mycroft said, a smirk on his face.

'You ain't sorry,' the older man grumbled.

'I'm really not.'

They stood in silence; Lestrade smoking, Mycroft staring up at the night sky. Finally Lestrade asked, 'How much did you hear?'

'Something about a bastard, unholy ways, you loving your mother, a lot of swearing, and you loving “Mills”,' Mycroft told him.

'Right...'

'I can put together an image from what I heard.'

Lestrade cocked his head. He loved that Mycroft deduced people and since he'd found out he never wasted an opportunity to get Mycroft to show off.

'Oh yeah? Go on, then,' he said and sucked back on his fag.

Mycroft cleared his throat, linked his fingers behind his back, and spoke; 'You were on the phone to your mother, clearly, as you said _Ma_ and _Mum_ a number of times. Whatever you were talking about was an argument had many times, and I based that on you repeating, “I know” and “I will if he will” a few times. You also said “unholy ways” and “he raised me”, making me believe you were talking about your father, who doesn't approve you also sleeping with men.

'You then said you'd “be there”,' Mycroft continued, 'and seeing as how it's almost December, I'd say Christmas, a family-oriented holiday. Clearly your mother wants you to come home, your father dislikes how you live, you dislike your father, and you were arguing.

'I'm guessing Mills is a sibling, younger brother based on how you were speaking. You love your mother and brother, who also love you and want you home, but you hate your father because he can't accept you for who you are. Thus, the argument about you going home for Christmas. And... that's it,' Mycroft finished.

Lestrade blinked rapidly, staring at Mycroft, before his trademark grin spread across his face. 'Wow.'

'Wow?' Mycroft echoed.

'That was... brilliant,' Lestrade said. 'Really... seriously brilliant.'

Mycroft nodded slowly. 'Okay...'

'You just got one thing wrong,' Lestrade admitted and took another drag of his cigarette.

'What?'

'Mills is my sister, Millie, younger by six years,' Lestrade said, blowing smoke above his head.

'Damn it,' Mycroft cursed.

Lestrade chuckled and leaned against the brick wall opposite Mycroft. 'My family's fucked up,' he stated.

'Aren't all families fucked up?' Mycroft asked.

'I guess,' Lestrade said. 'I came out- you know, as bisexual- when I was fourteen. Dad hit the roof, Mum prayed, Millie was eight. She didn't know what was going on, just that Daddy suddenly hated me and Mummy was inviting the local priest over to “cleanse me”. I dropped out of high school, ran away from home, got a job delivering shit, and joined a fucking band.'

Mycroft was silent as he processed all of that. He... honestly hadn't seen it. He'd been so focused on the loud, exuberant nature Lestrade usually displayed, that he'd missed all the smaller, deeper things that truly made Lestrade tick.

Suddenly Lestrade was so much more fascinating than before, which Mycroft found hard to believe, but there it was. He took the steps necessary to have him leaning against the brick wall beside the shorter man.

'You ride a motorbike,' he stated.

''Course you know,' Lestrade chuckled.

'Do you have to perform?'

'Nah, Macca- the only girl in the group- said she'd cover some _Paramore_ songs while I got my shit together,' Lestrade explained.

Mycroft smiled at him before saying, 'Gregory, what's your favourite colour?'

Lestrade turned to him, shock written all over his face.

'And your favourite CD? Song? Book? Band?' Mycroft asked, much like Lestrade had done a few weeks ago (Lord, had it really been that short a time?)

The grin that spread across Lestrade's face was nothing like Mycroft had seen before and he found himself grinning in response.

Lestrade answered every rapid-fire question, and Mycroft relaxed with the man more than he had ever done before.

He now felt like he knew Gregory, not just _Lestrade_.

And damn it all if it didn't make the brunette that much more interesting.

Mycroft was seriously falling _hard_.

And he didn't care.

  
  


{oOo}

  
  


Lestrade... calmed down, after that. Not completely; he still flirted outrageously with Mycroft, he still jumped on tables to start singing, he still pulled down his jeans to show the TARDIS tattoo he had on his arse (and hadn't that been a glorious night for Mycroft). He had other tattoos, too; barbed wire around his left bicep, a wolf on his left shoulder-blade, a crude stick figure on his right arm flipping you off, and “Gregory Lestrade is fucking amazing” across his lower back (he'd been drunk, still didn't regret it).

So yes, Lestrade was still insane, but Mycroft... liked him more. Since Mycroft had over-heard Lestrade's chat with his mother, the older man had opened up. When it was just the two of them he dropped the “I'm fucking awesome, love me!” attitude and was quiet, his emotions a bit more serious and real. He gave Mycroft real smiles and soft touches and opened up.

And Mycroft opened up too. He told Lestrade things he hadn't told anyone else. He complained about school, Anthea and Sally keeping him up all night with their woman-on-woman sex, and Sherlock being a brat.

Lestrade listened to it all, and complained about life too, and they giggled and drank and Mycroft even tried a cigarette (he felt it'd taste better on Lestrade's lips...)

Yeah, those thoughts weren't going away. But unlike the first time, Mycroft didn't really want them to.

  
  


{oOo}

  
  


It was another Friday night, about four months after Mycroft had first met Gregory Lestrade; Gay Little Drummer Boy (Anthea), Sex-On-Legs (Sally), Chain Smoking Douche (Sherlock), Scruffy Punk Dude (John).

The entire group was at the pub to see _Black Tie Tuesdays_. Sherlock and John were being disgustingly couple-y to Mycroft's left, while Sally and Anthea were being disgustingly girly to his right. Mycroft wished Lestrade would appear and entertain him. Being the _fifth_ wheel was starting to piss him off.

Suddenly, like he'd been called by Mycroft's thoughts alone, Lestrade appeared (and wasn't _that_ a delicious thought? He could control Britain quickly if he could summon people by thought alone... maybe he was a wizard and had lost his Hogwarts letter... and maybe he'd drunk a bit too much for seven-thirty pm if he was thinking he was magic...) The brunette dragged Mycroft from his seat without a word and tugged him across the pub.

'Where are we going?' Mycroft asked. It showed how much their relationship had changed; at the beginning Mycroft would have pulled him to a stop, slapped him, and stormed back to his table. Now he just allowed the older man to pull down the hallway and outside into the cool night air. 'Lestrade?'

'Look, I've been patient,' Lestrade started rambling, letting the genius go, 'and I'd never do nothin' if the other dude or dudette didn't want it, but damn it, Mycroft, _you_ want it!'

Mycroft blinked. 'I'm sorry?'

'Fuck it!' Lestrade shouted. He grabbed Mycroft by the hips, pushed him against the wall, and snogged him.

Oh... _oh_... Mycroft was absolutely okay with this.

It surprised him how okay with it he was, actually. While he'd realised long, long ago (like all of three seconds after setting eyes on Gay Little Drummer Boy) that he was attracted to Lestrade. But it hadn't been until the past few weeks that he began to realise he actually had _feelings_ for the other man. Like, “go out on dates, watch movies, snuggle, have sex, and life happily ever after” feelings. Not just lust, nope. Mycroft was _falling_ for him.

And that was totally okay, because Lestrade's lips were warm, wet, and tasted faintly of alcohol and cigarettes (Mycroft was right, cancer-sticks tasted better on Lestrade's lips... wait, make that tasted _fucking amazing on his tongue!_ )

Lestrade's chapped lips parted Mycroft's, and the red-head promptly whimpered when a warm, experienced tongue licked at his own. Oh God.... _oh God_.

Lestrade pressed closer, hands never moving from Mycroft's lips. He tilted his head, somehow deepening the kiss. His tongue licked every single tooth, every nook and cranny, and was slick, wet, so gorgeous against Mycroft's own tongue that the younger man felt for sure he'd pass out at the sheer _awesomeness_ of it (yes, Mycroft really was that far gone, thinking a word Lestrade used frequently).

Finally- it took too damn long in Mycroft's opinion- Lestrade was pressed against him, chest to knees. He was solid, slim, his body heat radiating through his thin t-shirt and into Mycroft's, bleeding into his skin and instantly making the flush on his cheeks and neck brighter.

Mycroft's hands moved from Lestrade's shoulders, down his chest, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt and feeling the gorgeous planes of muscle beneath. His fingers moved over the many necklaces Lestrade insisted on wearing, and he vaguely heard Lestrade's belt buckle clink against his own.

 _Oh God,_ Mycroft groaned in his head, because his lips were otherwise occupied, _oh God, oh God, Jesus Christ, fuck, oh God!_

Lestrade's fingers dug into his hips, tugged him closer, and then their _crotches_ were rubbing together and Mycroft bucked into it, because Hold _fuck_ did that feel good, and he was moaning, and Lestrade was chuckling into his mouth, and his right hand was moving to Mycroft's arse, and his left was fiddling with Mycroft's belt, and _Mycroft wasn't losing his virginity in a back alley behind a fucking club, thank you very much!_

'N-No,' Mycroft gasped against Lestrade's lips, moving his hands up to tug at the drummer's hair ( _ooh, soft_ ).

Lestrade immediately pulled back, breaking their kiss, and Mycroft tried to stutter out an apology. 'Hey, s'fine,' the brunette shrugged it off, panting. 'You don't put out after the first date, I got it.'

Mycroft frowned. 'This isn't a date,' he felt the need to point out.

A dangerous grin spread across Lestrade's face and Mycroft swallowed thickly. 'Suppose I'll have to take you out on one then, huh?'

Mycroft... had nothing to say to that. Nobody had ever asked _him_ out before. No men or women or... anyone. He was Mycroft Holmes; weird, scary, ice-cold Mycroft Holmes. Why would anybody want _him_?

'So, uh... reckon I could?' Lestrade asked.

And Mycroft- because the four months they'd known each other had been fucking leading up to this moment- nodded.

Lestrade grinned again and jumped forward to crush their lips together, quickly plundering the genius' mouth. When his tongue retreated, Mycroft's followed, and the shorter man coaxed Mycroft to explore his mouth.

The need for air broke them apart again and Lestrade rested his forehead against Mycroft's. 'Wow,' he grunted.

'Uh-huh,' Mycroft breathed heavily.

Lestrade smiled, 'I told you I'd have you, didn't I?'

Mycroft groaned. 'Shut up and kiss me,' he demanded.

'Only one more; I got adoring fans waiting.'

'Then they'll wait,' Mycroft growled, tugging Lestrade closer by the shirt, 'you're _mine_.'

Lestrade's eyebrows jumped in surprise before a wicked smile took over his face. 'Yeah?'

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded.

Lestrade closed the very small distance between their bodies and whispered against Mycroft's lips, 'Call me Gregory.'

And he _was_ Gregory, wasn't he? Lestrade was the crazy drummer Mycroft had met four months ago. Gregory was his... boyfriend?

'Boyfriend,' Gregory nodded.

 _Gregory's an alien too... maybe he and Anthea are the same species_ , Mycroft mused.

'Oi, less thinking, more snogging!' Gregory ordered.

'Yes, Gregory,' Mycroft said.

Gregory shivered. 'Fuck, love when you say my name.'

'Gregory,' Mycroft grinned.

Growling, the drummer crushed their mouths together, and all thoughts of aliens, friends, and fans went flying out the window... or down the alley.

Whatever. Mycroft was snogging Gregory, he didn't give a fuck.

  
  


{oOo}

  
  


The snogging eventually ended, the bass player- Callum- coming out to shout at Gregory about getting his rocks off _after_ their set. Gregory flipped him off but sighed and broke away from Mycroft. 'You gonna watch?'

'And afterwards we'll make out,' Mycroft nodded, knowing what Gregory wanted to hear.

The brunette grinned, pecked Mycroft on the lips, and dragged him back inside.

The kiss-swollen lips, red love-bites, and tousled hair wasn't missed by Anthea, Sally, Sherlock or John. Anthea and Sally whistled, Sherlock groaned and wrinkled his nose, and John grinned from ear-to-ear. They all hooted when Gregory planted a firm kiss on Mycroft's lips and slapped his arse before disappearing.

Mycroft fell into his seat and stared vaguely across the pub. Anthea nudged him and he snapped back to himself. 'What?'

'Don't fancy him, huh?' Anthea grinned.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Yes, yes, I fancy the Gay Little Drummer Boy. Let's move on.'

'Never!' Anthea declared.

'We'll be telling this story for years,' Sally added.

'YEARS!' Sherlock and John shouted together.

Mycroft ignored them and went to get a drink. Suddenly feeling like a beer, he got whatever was on tap and went back to join the others. Just as he re-took his seat, _Black Tie Tuesdays_ took the stage, and Mycroft's eyes went straight to Gregory.

Gregory grinned and winked at him as he sat behind the drums. They played a few of their own songs before Gregory took the microphone.

'This song's important to me,' he said, 'it reminds me of a sexy red-head.'

Mycroft promptly blushed, his table hooted, and half the other pub-goers just stared in confusion.

And then the song started, and Gregory was singing; 'Well we don't need no one, to tell us what to do, oh yes we're on our own, and there's nothing you can do, 'cause we don't need no one like _you_ , to tell us what to do!'

Mycroft frowned, the song sounding familiar. And then suddenly, it all came to him, and Mycroft grinned.

''Cause I'm a brat! And I know everything, and I talk back! 'Cause I'm not listening to _aaanything yooou saaay_!'

It was the first song Greg had sung, back when Anthea dragged Mycroft into the pub, back when Mycroft was perving on the sexy drummer with the slim body and bedroom-voice.

Gregory's eyes found Mycroft's and he winked, grinning around the words.

Mycroft couldn't help but grin back (as well as picture the positions he'd have Gregory in by the end of the night... virtue be damned, he wanted that body now!)

Gregory's denim-clad hips swayed, his necklaces and wrist-bands clinked, his black-and-white checked belt bounced, and his tight AC/DC shirt rode up every time he jumped.

Mycroft knew why he'd let Anthea drag him into the pub that first time. And he was fucking grateful.

Maybe he'd thank her after he got Gregory into bed.

 _After_ , of course. Because Mycroft's mouth would be occupied as soon as Gregory got off stage.

 _He's turned me into a sex maniac and we haven't even had sex_ , Mycroft mused. He looked back up at Gregory's swaying hips, his cheeky grin, and his dark eyes. _Fuck it, I don't care,_ Mycroft thought before downing his entire beer and grinning.

  
  


“ _'Cause we don't need no one to tell us what to do_

_Oh yes, we're on our own, and there's nothing you can do_

_'Cause we don't need no one like you_

_To tell us what to do”_

_\- Chris Cheney [The Living End]_

  
  


{THE END}

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Note:** This is for _idso_ over on Tumblr for telling me about the comp. Also, if this seems rushed, it's cause I had a limit of 10,000 words, and my muse does so enjoy throwing me over that line. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> {IBegToDreamAndDiffer}


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